


The Holder of the Impala Keys

by ladysisyphus



Category: Supernatural, The Holders
Genre: Creepypasta, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-23
Updated: 2007-12-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:12:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladysisyphus/pseuds/ladysisyphus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house in you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls himself “The Holder of the End”. Should a look of child-like fear come over the workers face, you will then be taken to a cell in the building. It will be in a deep hidden section of the building. All you will hear is the sound of someone talking to themselves echo the halls. It is in a language that you will not understand, but your very soul will feel unspeakable fear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Holder of the Impala Keys

Sam Winchester walked up to the desk, his shoulders slumped, cursing the impulse that had told him to pick 'tails' over 'heads'. With Dean it was always 'heads'. He cleared his throat at the sleepy-looking elderly woman behind the desk, who wore regulation orderly's blues and looked old enough to have changed God's diapers. "Um," he started, knowing even without looking behind him that Dean was giving him that smug grin of encouragement, "can I speak to, uh, the Holder of the End?"  
  
Her cataract-clouded blue eyes suddenly grew great and round, and Dean clapped Sam on the back. "There! That's child-like fear! ...Child-like fear is good, right?"  
  
"That's what it says." Sam checked his printout again, squinting a little at the library printer's default tiny font. He was considering asking again, regardless of how utterly ridiculous he felt, when the woman behind the desk stood with a speed no one her age had a right to muster. The boys jumped back, startled, but she turned and began heading down a darkened hallway, illuminated only by a sickly flickering fluorescent light.  
  
Dean shrugged and pushed Sam after her. "Ladies first." Sam's postmodern instincts wanted him to take issue with that statement on _so_ many levels, but he just scowled and headed off behind the old woman, lest she, moving with her preternatural speed, manage to get away from them.  
  
As he stepped past the propped-open double doors into the hallway, Sam thought he heard Dean muttering to himself, but when he turned to check behind him, Dean's lips were shut and the sound persisted. Right, this was the part where the whispering was supposed to drive you crazy. That seemed to be recurring theme here. As they walked on -- faster now, nearly at a jog to keep up with the old woman and her swift stride -- the voice rose from a murmur to a conversation level to nearly a shout, all in some foreign tongue that sounded to Sam like the gibberish Dean always ended up speaking on the nights he'd had more than five margaritas. He wondered if the person speaking was trying to tell the one about the redhead in the alley behind the restaurant or the one about the brunette in the backseat of a apple-red Mazda. They all sounded alike after a while.  
  
He'd read the printout so many times in preparation that when the voice stopped, he planted his feet almost by instinct; Dean plowed into him, cursing as he stumbled backward, but Sam remained undaunted. Far in front of him now, the elderly orderly disappeared into the dim green-grey darkness just beyond where the light above him reached. "I'm just passing through," he called out to the nearly empty corridor, hearing his own words bounce back at him from the endless walls. "I wish to talk."  
  
A tense moment of silence followed, and Sam tensed his muscles to run, wondering how much gas they had left in the car, wondering how far panic and adrenaline could carry them in a night. Then the voice picked up again, as though it had never stopped, though now at the lower volume. Dean frowned up at Sam, who nodded, and the two of them began walking again. The orderly was no longer there to guide them, but the corridor dead-ended shortly thereafter, with a wall full of heavy iron bars beyond which was visible a cell.  
  
Sam stepped up to the bars, squinting in the dimness. There was no visible door in or out of the cell, nor did the bars seem designed to move. It was filthy, covered with the kind of dank slime that crept into unused basements, the kind of dirty that grows from years of disuse. In a corner of the cell huddled a figure, rocking back and forth on its haunches, dressed in a patient's gown that had likely started life as white, but which now bore the stains of age and decay. What startled Sam was not the smell, but the lack thereof -- there was no reek of human waste, as the sight before him gave him to expect, but instead the dank smell of lake water, heavy and clear. The figure's long, matted hair hung over its face, and there was no way of telling its sex or age. When it looked up at them, though, Sam could see that its lips moved in time with the noise around them.  
  
Dean leaned against the bars, reaching for Sam's hand and drawing the paper Sam held closer to his face, close enough to read. He frowned at the highlighted line near the bottom, then looked ahead at the figure in the corner. "So, uh ... what happens when they all come together?"  
  
The figure took a harsh breath that sounded of the ocean's being poured from a burlap sack, and told them.

  
~*~

  
"Well," said Dean, drumming on the steering wheel, "that was bracing."  
  
Sam looked at the bundle in his hands, about the size of a basketball, but he couldn't see the object within; he could only see the sweatshirt he'd wrapped around it, precisely to keep him from seeing the object within. "One down, 537 to go."  
  
Dean nodded, thumbing through Sam's printout. "So, uh, where'd you get these instructions again?"  
  
The object was warm, and it pulsed like a heartbeat. "4chan."  
  
"Huh," said Dean. "Figures."

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously inspired by [The Holders](http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/the-holders).


End file.
